


Old fears

by Ariana (Ariana_El)



Series: The House of Fëanor chronicles [15]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dagor Bragollah, Gen, Himring, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD in the background, Whump, mentions of post-Thangorodrim trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 17:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17533274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariana_El/pseuds/Ariana
Summary: As Maedhros gets wounded, old fears come to life again.





	Old fears

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Silmarillion whump bingo we made with Anduniela.  
> Prompt filled: panic attack
> 
> Posting within two weeks like I promised :)

**Old fears**

 

The winter dusk came quickly, the night was cold and windy. The patrol moved quietly and in haste through the terrains that had been safe not a long time ago. They all wanted to make it back to the fortress as soon as possible.

The enemy was closer than they had anticipated. The groups of orcs came closer and closer, and the one they had encountered the previous evening was a day and a half away from Himring. That group ceased to exist once the elves split up and took away the orcs’ advantage of shooting, but their arrows did do some damage. Fortunately nobody was killed.

Maedhros tried to focus on the fact that with some luck he would return to the castle with all the men he had left with. None of his elves was wounded gravely enough to slow their pace and he controlled it himself, though he let someone else lead. No losses, that was a good, a very good news, he reminded himself again, trying not to remember about the worse ones. Like about the dull pain in his shot shoulder. Or about the dreadful moment when his sword slipped from his weakened fingers as an orc was barely few steps away from him. Or about...

Thick, awful fear made his heart beat way too fast at the memory of hands gripping him suddenly from behind and dragging as he had been trying to reach for his dagger at least. At the vision of shackles he had seen for a moment around his wrists, the real and the non-existing one. At the darkest nightmares that were about to come true if the one grabbing him would drag him farther, back to...

It was Aphedir, Maedhros reminded himself, furious that he was going to pant as he seemed to lack air in his lungs. The hands that had grasped him and dragged him back belonged to his soldier, who rushed to protect his commander. An elf, not an orc. Companion. Friend.

“We stop for an hour,” ordered Maedhros as the sky was lit by a grim, cloudy morning. “Put the guards, eat and rest. The wounded in the middle.”

The patrol dispersed neatly in the small valley. Maedhros appointed the guards and went with two scouts to check if their supplies hidden nearby were still there. He was glad to see that no one and nothing had touched the nailed and tarred barrow and the stock of dry wood was still in its place. He left it to his companions to hide the supplies again, as they did not need to use them and walked around the valley. He wanted to check on the guards again, but he caught his adjutant’s stare and gave up. He ignored an empty space left obviously for him among the wounded, gathered together in the middle of the camp like he had ordered, and sat a bit farther away, where he could lean against a big stone. He was protected there as well and he could watch the entire camp, but no one could approach him from behind. Right now he would not bear anyone out of his sight, even if it had been one of his brothers.

“Fire?” asked Aphedir. He had a bag with herbs in his hand and he was swinging a small cauldron on his finger.

“You may.” Maedhros nodded, glancing at the wounded. “Prepare whatever’s necessary.”

“How’s...” started Aphedir, but something in his commander’s eyes made him drop his question. “I’ll have it right away.”

Maedhros was grateful for that; a question about his arm was the last one he wanted to hear right now. He remained in his position, watching the whole group. He had a few new elves from Maglor’s scouts, whom he had taken with him to show them the terrain and their hideouts, as they were now defending Himring together. His brother picked the ones he knew would manage the pace the eldest son of Feanor usually kept. Although they had done well, Maedhros took extra time to watch the one who was wounded. The elf was sitting quietly as Aphedir checked on his dressings. No one complained, but they also didn’t hide anything.

Food stuck in his throat, but Maedhros forced himself bite after bite to eat. His own order applied to everyone with no exceptions and he really didn’t need anyone to remind him that, even with just a gaze. His fingers could hardly grasp the travelling bread, but when Maedhros rested his wounded arm on his knees and helped himself with the other arm, he managed to raise his hand to his mouth. The movement was painful, but he preferred that to asking someone for help. Not here, not now.

“Everything’s in order.” Aphedir crouched by his commander at the very end.

Maedhros was painfully aware that he could not send him away to tend to the other wounded, as they had already been looked after. His companion deprived him of this excuse.

“Very well,” he nodded, making no move towards Aphedir.

“May I?” The elf reached for his arm and Maedhros needed all his willpower not to jerk away. Fingers touching his forehead made him shiver in disgust.

“There’s no need. The dressings hold well,” he hissed, cursing the stone behind his back that prevented him from moving away.

“But there might be a fever,” Aphedir pointed out with discontent; this could be expected of orc arrows. He left Maedhros a mug with herbs without a word, providently sticking it into his hand.

The mug proved to be more difficult to handle than bread. It was dragging his hand down and Maedhros had to lean to his knees as he was unable to lift it even for an inch. He drank perhaps half of it, when something rustled behind him and he turned around automatically. Too swiftly. A spasm of pain ran through his arm and his fingers loosened their unsteady grip. He splashed the rest of the herbs on his knees with a muffled curse.

***

The merciless wind would not let forget about the winter that still held the hills in her icy grasp. Nobody left the buildings unless they had to. Especially during the nights no one walked the walls except the guards.

Nevertheless, Maedhros took the watch. He should have been weary, he _was_ weary from the fight, the blood loss, the tiring march, but his anxiety would not let him stay in his chambers, let alone get some sleep. He needed something to do.

He spent the evening with Maglor, learning what had been happening during the two weeks of his absence. The singer had just recovered after the attack of the dragon that had destroyed his lands and chased him to seek refuge in Himring, so he watched his brother anxiously, until Maedhros got irritated and left, excusing himself with weariness. However, he hoped in vain to get some rest.

Maedhros sighed and rested his elbows on the stone crenel. Alcarino had made it clear that if he wanted to heal his arm quickly and without trouble, he should rest if for a couple of days at least. But right now it was nearly impossible and the concept of being utterly helpless when they still had to be vigilant...

A rustle was all it took. The instincts kicked in before he realised where he was. A turn, a kick. A jerk and then pain. Legs swept with a well-aimed kick. A curled silhouette. Good, it meant he wasn’t fighting. No weapons, but it didn’t mean defenceless. Maedhros could never, ever be defenceless. Never again.

And a voice. Unfamiliar, but not atrocious. Surprised, frightened. Elvish.

An elf. The cry of surprise was made by an elf. Maedhros took a step back, panic fear was replaced by sheer fury as he looked more consciously at the silhouette at his feet. The youngling was just sitting up, staring with fear at the son of Feanor. He touched his momentarily swelling eye, but didn’t move otherwise. Maedhros didn’t know him, so the boy must have been from the refugees who had come with Maglor.

“Lord Maedhros?!” The guard from the nearest watch ran towards them and as he noticed the boy, anger appeared on his features. “Terendo, have you lost your mind?!”

Maedhros leaned against the wall discreetly as it suddenly dawned on him what had just happened and his vision blurred. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Though Alcarino had given him something for the pain, his arm ached as if pierced with an incandescent iron rod. His left, the good one, the only one... He could also feel a warm liquid dripping to his elbow. Not good.

“Maedhros?”

The eldest son of Feanor shook his head, trying to get rid of the weariness, and opened his eyes. The guard was watching him with worry, as if expecting him to require help. The unlucky boy scrambled back on his feet unsteadily and stood behind, watching them and clearly not understanding.

“Take him from here and explain our rules,” hissed Maedhros, nursing his wounded arm. “And send someone to Alcarino, tell him to come to me. I’ll be in my chambers.”

“Right away.”

***

Alcarino didn’t take his time, he knocked at the door and came in soon after Maedhros, who barely managed to take off his cloak and loosen his jacket. Then his fingers would not work, whether he liked it or not.

“Close the doors.”

The healer raised his brows questioningly, but he obediently turned the key. Maedhros rarely locked himself in such a way and right now it must have been hard for him to manoeuvre the key.

“What’s the problem?” he asked calmly and placed the package with fresh dressings on the desk.

Maedhros made some vague gesture with his stump, pointing at his soaked sleeve; he ceased trying to unbutton his jacket. He sat silent as Alcarino carefully freed the wounded arm from the clothes and removed the soaked bandages. Only when he was cleaning the aggravated wound, Maedhros hissed angrily.

“Shall I stop?” Alcarino removed his hand with a clean cloth and waited until Maedhros got eye contact with him. He masked himself well, but he was barely hiding his tension. “What happened?”

“I didn’t hurt him,” muttered the wounded, moving closer to let the healer continue. “That idiot surprised me!” he hissed, angry at someone or at himself.

“Who?”

“Some youngling from Makalaure’s elves amused himself with creeping on the guards and took me for one of them,” explained Maedhros, irritated. “Fool! I could have sent him down the walls!”

That explained a lot. Himring’s crew knew that their commander was not to be taken from behind and surprised, unless you wanted to get yourself trampled into the ground at best. And startling wounded Maedhros was a sign of utter foolishness... or the lack of knowledge. Alcarino repeated that out loud.

“Well, he’ll know now.” Maedhros made a move as if to shrug, but the healer’s hand kept him still. “Thank you.”

“Do you intend to rest? Shall I help you?” Alcarino pointed at the boots, tying the ends of the sling around Maedhros’s neck. “Then let at least your arm rest for a while. Don’t move it,” he ordered when, just like he expected, Maedhros shook his head at the mere suggestion of sleep.

“Might be hard.”

“Do you want me to keep you company?” Alcarino decided to ask directly.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” snorted Maedhros with offense. “And I will be a poor company,” he looked at the healer, then gave him a crooked smile. “Maybe you want to call for some food and wine as well?” he mocked and waved his left elbow weakly, pointing at the sling restraining his movements.

“If you wish so.” Alcarino tossed a loose, unbuttoned tunic over his back. “I don’t have ask to know you didn’t go for supper,” he added gently.

“Too much trouble.” To prove his words, Maedhros placed his arm on the desk with effort and tried to grasp the mug the healer had brought. Leaning forward and helping himself with the stump, he managed to drink half of the contents before putting it down to prevent it slipping from his grasp. “It’s not getting any tastier,” he commented with ostensible disgust.

“But it’s also working, Nelyo.”

The informal form, used rarely by his brothers, surprised Maedhros for a moment; enough for the healer to lean forward over the desk and place the mug by his lips. The wounded glared at him with visible offense, but then gave up the pretence and accepted the help.

“We’re alone,” Alcarino reminded him. For some reason Maedhros was anxious and he could barely control it. The healer didn’t know if the helplessness or something else was the cause. Surely the incident at the walls didn’t help, but earlier something must have driven Maedhros from his chambers and made him seek the healer’s company. Alcarino doubted the son of Feanor would tell him, but he didn’t intend to push him.

“I’m not stopping you,” muttered Maedhros, putting the stump under the sling, checking if he would be able to remove it himself. “I’ll manage.”

“You don’t intend to lay down,” Alcarino pointed out. “But perhaps a bath could help,” he suggested.

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll prepare it.”

Maedhros looked keenly at him, as if showing he knew what the healer was doing, but then he just nodded.

Alcarino left and waited outside for a moment to make sure he would not hear the key turned in the lock. Maedhros’s private bathroom was situated a few chambers away and even now, with the fortress being overcrowded, it remained for the sole use of the sons of Feanor. The healer went in to check if the water in the pipes coming from the kitchens was warm enough. Dissatisfied, he asked for two cauldrons of boiling water from the kitchens. He returned to his patient when everything was ready.

Maedhros seemed to not have moved an inch. He sat stiffly in his armchair with his arms crossed tightly on his chest, but Alcarino soon realised he was wrong. The wounded was rubbing his stump against his side and he froze for a moment as the door opened, but when he saw who came in, he returned to his attempts to massage his arm. Alcarino had not seen this gesture for a very long time.

“Everything’s ready. Let’s go.”

“Wait. Take it off.” Maedhros was pale and sweaty, the dark circles under his shining eyes more visible than earlier.

“I don’t want you to wet the wound,” said the healer calmly. “Leave it.”

“Take it off,” commanded Maedhros more sternly and stood up swiftly despite his weariness. “Don’t tie me up. Not you. I know,” he said impatiently. “Just take it off. Please.”

“You’ll have to hold your arm up.” Alcarino gave up and removed the sling.

Maedhros sighed with visible relief and closed his eyes for a moment. Calmer, he went to the bathroom and let the healer undress him. Alcarino pretended he didn’t feel the muscles tensing at his mere touch.

The water worked as usual. After a moment of following the healer’s every move with his vigilant stare, Maedhros calmed down and leaned against the tub. Warm water brought relief and helped to relax the tensed muscles. Alcarino smiled to himself as he noticed that the eldest son of Feanor stopped staring so intensely with those steel eyes of his and closed them, leaning his head back. He knew, however, that he could not let him sleep. Not just yet.

“So, what’s been going on around?” he asked.

Maedhros glanced at him with a hint of a grim smile playing on his lips, as if he wanted to ask whether the healer really wanted to know, but also aware why he was doing that. He sank in deeper into the water and started reporting, as if he was on a council meeting.

        

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading,I'd be glad to hear from you.
> 
> Anyone remember water details from Reconciliation?


End file.
